They went on up the corridor, said goodnight to Burke, pushed open the heavy iron door and went out into the alley. As they started up it toward the Strand, they heard the brassy strains of a street band playing “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains.”
“What’s that?” asked Cortland.
“Hurry up and you’ll see,” said Sara.
They walked more quickly and reached the Strand just as the Samaritan band went by: the two thin men and one lady blowing their horns, the intense lady shaking her tambourine and the plump and jolly man pounding the big bass drum with unflagging enthusiasm. The dirty-faced urchins still accompanied them, running in and out of the crowds on the pavement. And the neat, well-scrubbed boy with the carefully brushed hair walked alongside them, making clear by his manner that he was with the uniformed players, the saved and the godly, and had nothing to do with the unkempt ragamuffins.
“Who are they?” asked Cortland.
“Samaritans,” said Sara. “They’re like the Salvation Army. They collect money to help feed and buy clothes for the poor.”
“Do they come around here often?”
“Almost every night. They probably collect more tin around here than anywhere else. People are easy with it when they’re going to theatre and such.”
Cortland nodded.
Alf and Liz, the pearly buskers, were just arriving for their evening performance for the theatre queue further up the street, and Andrew waved to them. They waved back, Alf touching his cap and Liz dropping him a mock curtsey.
A four-wheeler was coming up the Strand, and Andrew ran out to hail it and brought it over for Sara and Cortland to get into. He told the cabby where they wanted to go, got in himself and off they went to St. John’s Wood.
12
The Watchers in the Dark
Matson let them in and bowed gravely when he was told that Cortland would be staying with them for a few days. Mrs. Wiggins was, as usual, more responsive. She told Cortland that she had heard about him from Sara and Andrew, was delighted that he was going to be staying with them and insisted on taking him upstairs and showing him his room. When they came down, Andrew remembered to tell her that his mother would not be home for dinner.
“That’s all right,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “We’re as used to that as we are to unexpected guests. The thing is, would you mind very much if we had dinner just a bit on the early side? It’s Mr. Matson’s choir night.”
Along with several other surprising qualities, Matson had an extremely good voice and sang with the local choir. Andrew said of course they wouldn’t mind. That they’d had quite a big day and would be glad, not only to eat a bit earlier than usual, but to get to bed early.
Dinner was as good as it always was. Cortland was particularly impressed with Mrs. Simmond’s fruit tart, one of her specialties. They were all in the parlor playing parcheesi when Matson tapped tentatively at the door.
“Will you be requiring anything further, Master Andrew?” he asked.
“No, Matson. I gather you’re off to church.”
“If you’ve no objection.”
“Of course not.”
“Sing well, Matson,” said Sara. “We’ll be there to listen to you on Sunday.”
“I’ll do my best, Miss Sara, tonight and Sunday.”
He bowed and was about to go upstairs and get his coat and hat when there was a loud knock on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” said Andrew.
“No, Master Andrew. I have plenty of time.”
He went to the door in his usual, unhurried way and opened it—not as wide as he did when guests were expected—but only partway. Still he had opened it sufficiently for Andrew to see who had knocked. It was Hodge, the Cortland’s butler.
“Evening,” he said, in his rasping voice. “I’m Mrs. Benedict Cortland’s man. Is young Cortland here?”
“I will inquire,” said Matson smoothly.
“What do you mean, you’ll inquire? You’d know if he was here or if he wasn’t, wouldn’t you?”
“I said I will inquire,” said Matson without changing his expression or raising his voice, and he slammed the door in Hodge’s face.
“We heard,” said Andrew when Matson turned around, for by now Sara and young Cortland had joined him out in the entrance hall.
“What are we going to do?” whispered Cortland. “The inspector said he didn’t want me to go home. That he wanted me to stay here.”
“And so you shall,” said Andrew. “Say that he is here, but he’s going to stay, Matson.”
“Very well, Master Andrew.” He went to the door as sedately as he had before, but this time, before he opened it, he slid the chain that secured it into its catch so that it only opened about eight or ten inches.
“Well?” Hodge’s battered face was thrust aggressively close to the opening in the door.
“Young Master Cortland is here.”
“We thought he was. All right. Send him out. I’m to take him home.”
“I’m sorry, but he does not wish to go home. He prefers to remain here.”
“He what?”
“I said, he prefers to remain here.”
“Why, the young scut! You send him out here and be sharp about it, or it’ll be the worse for you!”
“Indeed?”
“Don’t you try to come it over me with those lah-de-dah manners! I know all about butling! But that ain’t all I know. If you opened that door and came out here, I’d bash you proper, I would! Now you send young Cortland out here to me, or I’m going to the police!”
“That is a perfectly splendid idea. It will save me the necessity of sending the coachman there. The police station is on the Wellington Road, and the sergeant’s name is Doggett. He’s a good friend of mine, so give him my regards. Good night.” And with sudden forcefulness he slammed and locked the door.
“Well done, Matson,” said Andrew. “Very well done indeed.”
“Thank you, Master Andrew.” Then, as Hodge began a furious tattoo, alternately kicking the door and using the knocker, “Shall I stop at the police station and tell them about this? It’s not out of my way.”
“I don’t think that’s really necessary. But be careful when you leave. As you’ve probably gathered, he’s quite a violent fellow.”
“He doesn’t frighten me, Master Andrew. However, I’d like to say that I can easily miss choir practice. I mean, if you thought it would be helpful if I stayed here …”
“I don’t, Matson. We’ll be fine. You go ahead.”
“Well, if you’re following instructions from Inspector Wyatt as Master Cortland suggested, then I’m sure you’ll be all right.” And bowing, he went upstairs to get his things as he had started to do when Hodge had knocked.
He came down a few minutes later, his bowler set squarely on his head, umbrella under his arm, pulling on his gloves.
“I’ll let you out and lock up after you, Matson,” said Andrew.
“I was going to suggest that, Master Andrew. Lock and bolt the door. I have the key to the back door, and I’ll come in that way.”
“Very good, Matson.” He opened the door, and Matson went out and stood there for a moment on the top step, looking around and then up at the overcast sky, as if to see whether he should put up his umbrella.
“Can you hear me, Master Andrew?” he said very quietly without turning around.
“Yes, Matson.”
“There’s a carriage up the street near the entrance to Three Oaks. Our violent friend is talking to someone in it, and it looks to me as if he’s planning to remain here for a while. Are you still sure you don’t want me to stay home this evening?”
Andrew hesitated a moment. Evidently Wyatt had anticipated something like this, which was why he had given them such strict instructions. On the other hand, Andrew did not consider that things—to use Wyatt’s phrase—had gotten really sticky yet.
“Thank you, Matson, but I still don’t think there’s any need to do that.”
“Very well. However, I think I should tell you that Fred is back, and I took the liberty of sending a note over to the stable telling him to stand by until I got home.”
“You seem to have thought of everything, Matson. Thank you again, and I’m sure we’ll be fine until you get home.”
Matson bowed, went down the steps, across the front garden and turned right on Rysdale Road, away from Hodge and the carriage, on his way to the church.
Andrew locked and bolted the door, went back into the sitting room and told Sara and Cortland what Matson had said.
“Why does Hodge—or rather my stepmother—want me so badly?” asked Cortland. “She doesn’t care that much about me. In fact, she doesn’t like me at all. She’s always happy to have me go back to school.”
“It’s because of your grandfather,” said Sara. “Because she thinks she can use you to get hold of him again or use you to get him to do something she wants.”
“I still don’t really understand it, but I think you’re right. She was never the least bit interested in me till he came back to England from Germany. But if that’s the case—I mean that it’s me that she wants—perhaps I should go. Otherwise it might become dangerous for the two of you.”
“Don’t you even think of going!” said Sara fiercely. “Peter Wyatt said that you were to stay with us, and that’s what you’re going to do.”
“Sara’s right,” said Andrew. “He told us what he wanted us to do, and that’s what we should do. Meanwhile, how about another game of Parcheesi?”
They played several more games, played until Cortland began yawning, and looking at his watch, Andrew saw that it was almost ten o’clock. He suggested that it was time they went up to bed, and Sara and Cortland agreed. They had folded the board, put the dice and counters into their box, when Cortland suddenly became very still.
“What is it?” asked Sara, unconsciously dropping her voice.
“I’m not absolutely sure,” said Cortland, “but I thought I saw someone out there in the garden.”
“Where?” asked Andrew, who had his back to the French doors.
“Over near the bushes.”
Sara and Andrew looked at one another.
“We’re all a little nervy,” said Sara. “He could have imagined it.”
“He could. On the other hand, he might be right.” He stood up. “You two open the board up and start another game.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Cortland.
“There’s another back door beside the kitchen door. It opens off the larder, and you can’t really see it from the outside. I’m going out that way. I’ll do an Indian stalk through the garden and see if there really is anyone out there.”
“All right,” said Sara. “But be careful.”
“I will. But I don’t have too much to worry about. It’s Cortland they want, not me.”
He strolled casually out of the sitting room without looking at the window, went through the dining room, the pantry, the kitchen and into the larder without striking a match. He had to move carefully through the larder, for it was quite full of things, and at one point he almost knocked over a flour barrel; but he finally reached the door, eased the bolt back and opened it very quietly.
He remained there for a moment, listening and peering out into the darkness. It was a very dark night. It had become grey late in the afternoon, and now clouds completely hid the moon and stars. The night air was fresh and laced with some of the first smells of spring; the heady scent of early roses, of the laburnum and rhododendron and the sweet smell of apple and chestnut blossoms from the large estate of Three Oaks next door.
Andrew started around the back of the house, moving slowly and quietly. The only light in sight at this point was in Fred’s room over the stables. That meant Fred had obeyed Matson’s instructions and was still up, which was good.
He was on the west side of the house now, the side with the sitting room windows. Crouching as he went past the kitchen windows, he glanced to his right and froze. Ahead were the bushes where Cortland thought he had seen someone. They were between Andrew and the far-off glow of a streetlight on Rysdale Road. And distant as that light was, it provided enough illumination for him to see, not one, but two shapes hiding in the bushes!
He closed his eyes, tried to make himself relax. Were there really two figures there or was he imagining it? He tried to recall exactly what the bushes were, how they were shaped. Two of them were rose bushes, but the one in the center was a rhododendron; it was near it that he thought he had seen the figures. Why there? Because roses have thorns, idiot, and if someone is going to hide in the bushes, they would choose to do it in a rhododendron rather than a rose bush. He opened his eyes and looked again. The figures were still there. And they seemed to have moved a little. Did he dare go any closer to make absolutely certain, see if he could recognize them? No. But what if he went completely around the house and approached them from the street side? If he did that, coming up behind them, he could see them silhouetted against the light in the living room. It was worth trying.
He turned and went back around the rear of the house, still moving carefully. He was halfway down the east side of the house now, keeping close to it, when he froze again—not because of anything he saw, but because of what he heard: a faint, muffled cough. Crouching, he looked to his right. And there, standing behind a hawthorn, he saw a third figure—not only saw it, but saw it move. For after the cough, the man reached up to pull his muffler closer about his neck.
He was convinced now that he had not imagined the two near the rose bushes. So there were at least three of them standing outside the house, watching it. Was that all they were going to do, watch it? Or, at some point, were they going to try to break in? There was, of course, no way of telling. But it seemed to Andrew that the situation had now become what Wyatt had characterized as sticky.
Moving as quietly, but more quickly than he had before, he went back along the side of the house and in through the larder door. He closed and bolted it, then went back through the kitchen, the pantry and the dining room to the sitting room.
Sara and Cortland were where he had left them, sitting at the table in front of the window, pretending to be playing still another game of Parcheesi.
“Well?” said Sara.
“He didn’t imagine it. There are two men over there, near the bushes, and one on the other side of the house over near the Three Oaks wall.”
“Three of them?”
“Yes. At least three. And Hodge further up the street.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Cortland in a hushed, rather anxious voice.
“You know. The inspector told us what to do.”
“Go to the theatre.”
“Yes. I don’t know what the men are planning to do, whether they’d dare break in here, but I think we should go as soon as we can. What I don’t know is how we’re going to manage it—how we’re going to get out of here without having them get hold of Cortland.…”
“I know how,” said Sara. “I thought of a way some time ago.”
“How?”
“Never mind how. Do you trust me, Benedict?” she asked Cortland, calling him by his first name for the first time. “Will you do just as I say?”
“Yes, Sara.”
“All right, then. Go get Fred,” she said to Andrew. “Go out the front door and walk back to the stable the way you would if nothing were wrong. In other words, you haven’t any idea that anyone is out there. Have Fred bring the carriage around here, and Bendict and I will be ready.” Then, as he hesitated, “What’s wrong? Benedict hardly knows me, and he trusts me. Why are you acting as if you don’t?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s just … All right. I’m going.”
He unchained and unlocked the door and went out. He stood for a moment just where Matson had stood, looking out toward Rysdale Road. Just beyond the hedge to the left, he could make out a dark shape that was probably Hodge. And further to the l
eft, near the wall around Three Oaks, he could see the carriage Matson had mentioned. He went down the steps, out from under the porte cochere and around the house to the stable, carefully avoiding looking at the bushes where he had seen the two men lurking.
The light was still on in Fred’s room, and the carriage was out in front of the stable, which meant that Fred intended to call for Verna somewhere. But the horses were inside for, like a good coachman, Fred had unhitched them when he got home, undoubtedly rubbed them down and put them into their stalls for a feed until they were needed again.
By the time Andrew had slid open the stable door, Fred—who must have heard him—was coming down the stairs.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“We need the carriage, Fred.”
“I thought you might, and I’ve been waiting since I got Matson’s note. In a hurry, are you?”
“A bit.”
“Then you’d better help with the horses. You take Jack out, while I get Jerry.” He went into the first stall, untied the bay gelding and backed him out. “Is this one of the inspector’s dos?”
“Yes.”
“I thought that, too. Better get cracking.” He went into the second stall to get the other horse while Andrew led Jack out, backed him into place and began to hitch him up. Fred came out with Jerry, and in less than ten minutes the carriage was ready to go.
“Now what?” said Fred, climbing up into the box.
“Around front to pick up Sara and a friend of mine,” said Andrew climbing up beside him. “Sara will tell you where to go?”
“What about you?”
“I’m going somewhere else.”
“Like that, eh? All right.”
He shook the reins, drove the carriage around the house and under the porte cochere.
“They should be ready. I’ll get them,” said Andrew, jumping down from the box. As he ran up the steps, the door opened, and Andrew paused in midstride. Sara had lit the gaslights in the entrance hall, and it was now as bright as day. Standing there beside Sara, and clearly visible at least as far away as the street, was another girl just an inch or so taller than Sara. It was only when Andrew recognized the girl’s dress and bonnet as Sara’s that he realized what she had done—that she had disguised Cortland by dressing him as a girl.
The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6) Page 9